


Mnemosyne

by CaptainSwank



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSwank/pseuds/CaptainSwank
Summary: The chronicles of one Jonah Magnus.
Relationships: Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. 31st October 1815

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leitnerpiper69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leitnerpiper69/gifts).



MNEMOSYNE

or

BRIEF SCENES

from

THE CURIOUS LIFE

of

JONAH MAGNUS

_ A faithful account of his many strange and wondrous adventures, exploits, undertakings, &c. _

_ 31st October 1815 _

After he was shaved and dressed and ready, Jonah Magnus sent his valet to call for him a hackney to convey him from his rented rooms in the West End to 81 Charlotte St. He kept the feeling from his face, but he was destined for an appointment about which he was very much excited.

The moment that he stepped down from the coach he felt eyes upon him, but by now he had become accustomed to the sensation. In fact, his conspicuous existence was somewhat by design. He knew that the stares of passers-by were drawn either by the elegance of his dress, or by his notoriety. 

Word of his many wise investments had by now reached London society. Of course, word of his somewhat unique interests had accompanied the news as well. He didn’t need to overhear the whispers that were conjured by his appearance to know that.

As he tapped his knuckles twice against the door of the elegant townhouse, he could keep the enthusiasm from his face no longer. But he schooled his small and secret smile before the door was opened by a servant of his very dear friend, Mr. Robert Smirke. He gave the man his hat and greatcoat and gloves and cane, and he let himself be led to the welcoming warmth of Smirke’s sitting room.

“Ah, Jonah,” he said, with the easy familiarity that came of the intimacy of their friendship, and with the authority of age. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

“Likewise, Robert,” Jonah replied, with the impertinence of youth. This wasn’t merely an exchange of pleasantries; Jonah was genuinely pleased to once again be in Robert’s good company. He took the seat that was offered to him, and for form’s sake, he asked his question.

“Your letter was somewhat oblique. I’ve been  _ very _ eager to discover exactly what it was you’d meant by it. Perhaps now, here, you could elaborate...?”

“Struggled with my little cipher, did you?” Smirke lit his pipe and Jonah followed suit. “I’m somewhat surprised,” he said mildly.

“Please,” Jonah replied with a little laugh. “It was simple enough to puzzle out. It was the  _ content  _ of the letter that piqued my curiosity.” Jonah thought back to Smirke’s message and its air of whimsical fancy, so unlike the staid, sober words of his usual correspondence. He had always been under the impression that Smirke had been merely humouring his more esoteric pursuits; discussing them more for his own amusement than because of any real interest.

Smirke leaned back in his chair to quietly consider Jonah for a moment. To help distract himself from his own impatience, Jonah studied him back. At thirty-five, Smirke’s face was itself an impressive example of God’s architecture. It exemplified the sort of balance that Smirke had always tried to emulate. Jonah was quite sure that were he presumptuous enough to mark and measure the angle of his straight nose and strong chin, there would be perfection in the numbers that he found.

“I often find myself, Jonah, susceptible to dark moods — to morbid little whims and fancies.” Jonah nodded. He was curious, though somewhat concerned, for his friend.

“Of what nature?” Jonah asked, leaning forward in his chair. Robert raised his hand for patience and for silence.

“Common anxieties, I don’t doubt. When I look upon my piles of plans and sketches and writings, at times I can’t help but imagine them doused in flame, consumed by some wild conflagration.” Jonah nodded again. The town had burned before; it could always do so again. Smirke continued, and he stared into the fire as if bewitched.

“Some nights I start awake in bed, immobilized by some unseen presence, some invisible phantom that feels as if it’s pressing down against my chest. On my walks I see filth and disease in the streets and I wonder when the contagion will come for me. I think of the chaos and confusion of the long wars only just now ended, and sometimes I see shades lurking in the dark. And always, always this sense of constant scrutiny, and of my own inevitable death.” 

Jonah takes a moment to release the breath he had found that he’d been holding. He wouldn’t suggest that they summon a physician, nor a jaunt to Bath. Smirke didn’t write him and invite him into his home for pity or for concern; of this Jonah was quite certain. He waited for Smirke to continue. Instead, his friend asked,

“And what is it that you fear, Jonah Magnus?”

Jonah locked eyes with the man and he smiled. He knew that when Smirke looked at him, he saw a young man of eighteen who was rich and beautiful and beset on all sides by proposals of marriage. Jonah’s smile failed to falter. That’s right. He’d left fear behind him long ago.

“I _ fear _ you won’t soon arrive at your point.”

Smirke smiled back. “Well then, Mr. Magnus, do you remember what I asked you to think upon when last we met?” Jonah nodded, but Smirke repeated his question. “What do others fear?”

“It is just as you say, Robert: pain, loss, death.”

“Yes,  _ yes _ , Jonah, but what of the specifics? If you haven’t any idea, think of others. What frightens your many friends? What did your parents fear?”

The smile was finally snatched from Jonah’s face. 

“Robert, please. Where is all this leading?” Jonah had an idea, of course, but Smirke’s thoughts were so complex, so layered, so quick to rise and take form and dissipate again, that Jonah had always struggled to grasp them. It was one of many reasons that he so valued their friendship.

“I have been thinking,” Smirke finally said, and he said it in Latin. “I have devised a little experiment, a mere diversion, to occupy me as I work.”

“And how might it concern me?” Jonah asked, unable to help himself, grinning gleefully at the implications of the shift to this archaic tongue. The secrecy and subterfuge amused him, and it excited him to know that whatever he was about to learn needed to be kept from Smirke’s servants. 

“You’d do well to learn to listen and be silent, boy,” Smirke said, not unkindly. “Yes, I’ve been thinking a great deal on the nature of fear. And to amuse myself I’ve designed a sort of natural system, a method of classification that might be used to better understand it.” In that moment Jonah found it quite challenging to hold his tongue and keep his many racing thoughts to himself.

“Of course I would be most obliged if I could have the pleasure of hearing your thoughts upon the matter. But what I truly wish to discuss are the implications of such a system. There’s been much talk of your substantial interest in gathering tales of the morbid and the macabre. But what I should really like to know is —” 

Jonah watched as Smirke paused as if to listen to a sound that Jonah did not hear. He cocked his head and turned towards the door as Smirke did, but none of his senses suggested to him there was a presence lurking there.

“Robert?” Jonah asked.

“No more of this, today,” Smirke responded. Jonah moved to protest but Smirke raised his hands. “I assure you that we will continue our discussion at a later date. But that is certainly enough for the moment.” Smirke stood and moved to a table underneath the sitting room window. “For now,” Smirke said, gesturing to the board on the table before him, “shall we play?”

Jonah sighed and stood and knew that there’d be no convincing his friend to continue— knew that he was not yet in possession of the information necessary to divine the depths of Smirke’s true thoughts. So he tried to clear his mind of his hunger for Smirke’s speculation on the supernatural and the strange, and he moved over to the table. 

“You play first,” Jonah said, and he sat down in front of the beautiful black pieces of Smirke’s chess set. He had a considerable advantage over other players, he knew, but he had decided long ago not to employ his unique abilities against his friend. To be more sporting still, he allowed Smirke the advantage of first play. Smirke smiled, sat down at the seat opposite him, and without preamble, he moved his king’s pawn to its fourth square. Jonah immediately responded with the Sicilian Defence, and Smirke moved his king’s knight to its bishop’s fourth square.

“Insects,” Jonah said, again in Latin, and Smirke looked up from the set with raised eyebrows. “Standing on a very high precipice and looking down.” Jonah saw that Smirke wanted control of his queen’s fourth square. Jonah wanted control of it too. He moved his queen’s knight to her bishop’s third square.

“Very good, Jonah,” Smirke replied, as he moved his queen’s pawn to her fourth square. “And what else?”

“All of one’s family and friends dying, or leaving.” Jonah drew first blood; pawn took pawn. 

“Rendering one all alone in the world,” Smirke replied, and he captured that attacking pawn with his knight. 

“Mm,” Jonah said, and he pressed a finger to his lips. Smirke had more control of the board now, but Jonah felt this exchange was well worth it. He would keep his pawns, for he was sure that they would be of great use to him when they reached the end of all this. And he was now in possession of a semi-open file, should he wish to use it to press his attack.

“But why, Robert? To what end do you propose this classification? What possible purpose could it serve?” Jonah didn’t doubt that Smirke’s design had an endgame, so to speak. He wanted to accelerate the tempo of the game, the conversation, and the music swelling in his mind. Instead of pushing his king’s pawn up one square as would have been expected, he pushed it two. A less traditional move, maybe. But more ambitious. 

The unexpected play caused Smirke to pause and study the board. Without looking up from it, he said,

“Where do you stand with God, Jonah?” And he took Jonah’s knight with his own. Now it was Jonah’s turn to be surprised at the aggression of Smirke’s attack. He would have expected the man to have retired the knight, under such pressure. 

The surprise at Smirke’s move, the audacity of the question, and the delight at the possibility of blaspheming in Latin all contributed to the momentary suspension of Jonah’s hand above his queen’s pawn. But he blinked twice to clear his head, and the correct pawn dispatched Smirke’s knight. He could not afford to let Smirke shake him so in the future of this game; he visualized the moves that would have followed his near-mistake. The resulting exchange of queens would have caused him much displeasure.

“Whyever do you ask?” Jonah’s pawn took the knight.

Smirke was silent for a moment as he considered the board. He rose from the table and smiled kindly at his friend.

“Perhaps we should leave the game here for today, Jonah.”

“But—”

Smirke interrupted his protests. “We shall continue at a later date, I assure you,” he said. Jonah was ravenous in his need to know exactly what it was that Smirke was playing at, but he trusted the man completely. He reached out to shake his friend’s hand. 

“I eagerly await your next move.” 


	2. 2nd August, 1818

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonah spars with a friend.

_ 2nd August, 1818 _

Jonah and Smirke entered the exclusive salle to find that Dr. Fanshawe had arrived early to their appointment.

“Ah, Jonah,” said Fanshawe, smiling and warm. “And you’ve brought an esteemed guest!”

Jonah made the necessary introductions; Smirke was his reserved yet cordial self, and Fanshawe was quietly reverent despite his barely-concealed enthusiasm. Anyone would grapple with their own tremendous excitement at the opportunity to befriend a man of Smirke’s many accomplishments, Jonah understood. He nodded in satisfaction at their easy conversation, and he cast his eye about the room. Many sets of eyes looked back.

A small gathering of older gentlemen stood in the corner of the room, and they weren’t ashamed to have been caught staring. They held Jonah’s cool gaze for a moment before they began to gather their things. A man of about Jonah’s age blushed and dropped his eyes. When his young companion’s voice was the only sound ringing throughout the room, he grabbed his friend and pulled him towards the door. Jonah raised a single eyebrow at the final two fencers who had paused in their assault, and they lowered their swords and shuffled off the piste. Soon all the men had dutifully filed out, and the salle was left to Jonah and his friends.

“What luck,” Jonah said mildly. “Some privacy.”

“Was that entirely necessary, Jonah?” Fanshawe asked him. He feigned the slightest indignation to obscure the degree to which Jonah’s notoriety truly impressed him. 

“Oh, I think you’ll find that it was,” he replied. He moved to the side of the room and began to arrange his things. When he was quite ready, he turned to Fanshawe and he smiled.

“Let’s have a bout, shall we?”

The vacant room gave Smirke his choice of prime seating, and he settled himself comfortably while the two men dressed and took up arms. They saluted Smirke, they saluted each other, and they put their masks in place. 

“En garde!” Smirke said, his strong voice ringing clear. Jonah and Fanshawe took up the appropriate positions. “Prêts?  _ Allez! _ ”

“Dr. Fanshawe,” Jonah began, beginning on the attack. “Might you be at all interested in the subject of my recent studies?” He swung his foil.

“Jonah, please.” Fanshawe easily parried his thrust. “ _ Jonathan _ will do. And I should like nothing more.” With a flick of his wrist, his parry smoothly transitioned into a riposte, and the tip of his sword pressed for a moment into Jonah’s breast.

“However, do you truly think this the most appropriate venue for such a debate?” The two men stepped back, once again readied themselves for engagement, and Jonah set about his attack once more. “I was told you were an expert fencer, and in accepting your invitation I must admit I felt a degree of enthusiasm at the prospect of a challenging bout.” Fanshawe parried Jonah’s thrust a second time, displaying very little exertion. “But I don’t appear to have your complete attention.” Now Fanshawe responded with an attack of his own. “I do admire your confidence.”

Jonah smiled behind his mask. Gentleman that he was, he had allowed his friend the first touch. It was only sporting. Fanshawe’s gentle teasing amused him, yes. But he would provide the man his challenge.

“He  _ has  _ shown that he’s quite capable of operating quite competently on multiple fronts,” came Smirke’s warm voice from where he sat. “His is a particularly sharp wit.”

“Indeed,” agreed Jonah, and it was his turn to parry Fanshawe’s blow. This time, Jonah’s attack landed cleanly.

“Excellent,” Fanshawe said, collecting himself, and Jonah could see his smile, too. 

In truth, Jonah knew that his friend’s words weren’t without merit. While he had fully intended to amuse himself that morning, he knew that he was facing a significant exchange. Yes, it would be  _ very  _ important that he win over his friend, or at least sow some seeds of interest. 

And victory would have been a very simple matter, could he pluck Fanshawe’s intent from his mind like he did when they were at cards together. But the speed of their engagement was so brisk that such a feat proved impossible under his current degree of control over this strange and wonderful power. 

_ This will make for excellent practice,  _ he thought to himself, before Fanshawe’s blade flew at him. There was a flurry of action, then: the prime parry from Jonah and then his attempted response; a counter-riposte from Fanshawe; another parry from Jonah, and then— a hit.

Fanshawe conceded the touch. “I’d very much like to congratulate you on the opening of your club,” he said, barely at a loss for breath.

“Institute,” said Jonah archly, and attacked.

“Please don’t misunderstand me, Jonah,” Fanshawe replied, as he knocked the sword aside and replied with an attempt of his own. “I’m intimately aware of how you toiled so to see your dreams made real.” 

“Thank you, Jonathan,” said Jonah, with sincerity. “It certainly wasn’t easy.” Jonah blocked him and landed another point. The two men stepped back to engage again, and Jonah tried to score once more.

“Of this I’m well aware.” Fanshawe denied him, and swung, and Jonah deflected him again.

“In fact, I want the two of you to accompany me on my return to Edinburgh to see its opening.” Jonah had seen a weakening in Fanshawe’s defense, and he attempted to capitalize upon it.

“It’d be my pleasure,” said Smirke.

“I would be honoured,” said Fanshawe, who struck with such power that Jonah had found himself pushed back by its force.

They were quite evenly matched, Jonah felt, and the score reflected that. But he had to identify and act on some advantage quite soon.

“Now, Jonah,” Fanshawe started, as he drew his blade across his opponent’s. The sound that it produced resonated throughout the fencing salle. “Over the course of our mutual acquaintance you’ve spoken at length on the nature of your… interests. But you must tell me now exactly what it is that you’ll be doing at this institute of yours.” 

The point of his foil struck Jonah squarely in the chest. In his excitement to assemble a cogent and articulate response, he had failed to deflect the blow. Now he was at the disadvantage, in terms of scoring.

“Robert,” Jonah said, as he tried to slow his pounding heart and hide the quickening of his breath. “Tell Jonathan of your theories.” Jonah sensed Smirke’s small pause as they set themselves up for the next attack. “I want him to know. I’d appreciate his help.”

And so Smirke cautiously cleared his throat, and he began. He told Fanshawe, in his succinct and eloquent way, of the long nights they had spent conversing, and of the many encoded letters they had traded. 

He lectured beautifully on the nature of fear, and on its many specific manifestations, and on its fundamental power over man. Over the harsh breathing of the two combatants, and the harsher sound of a foil encountering its twin, Smirke spoke of the myriad theories upon which Jonah sought to expand. There was a quiet moment while each man searched for an opening, and then Fanshawe said,

“Well, that’s all a little absurd, don’t you think?” 

“No,” Jonah replied. “I do not.” And then Jonathan hit him with his sword.

“Mm. Let’s change tack, shall we? I’m sympathetic to your instinct towards study, despite the… somewhat arcane subject matter that you’ve chosen. But to what end, Jonah? What is the  _ point _ ?” 

“Power,” said Jonah, simply. His next strike hit.

“To do what with?” Jonathan replied, sounding somewhat taken aback. His blow landed. So engaged were they in their thinking and their bout that both men hesitated slightly when they heard Smirke speak.

“Can you imagine?” he said. “The degree to which we might help others, if we could harness such power?” It was a very near thing, almost a simultaneous touch— but the next point was Jonah’s.

“Is that not your vocation?” Jonah asked, picking up the thread that Smirke had left him and slipping it through the needle’s eye. The tip of his blade bounced off the heavy material protecting Fanshawe’s ribs. 

“To help and to save others?” His blade whipped and tore through the air and caught Fanshawe above his heart. 

“Have you not taken an  _ oath? _ ” He hit Fanshawe again.

“Imagine what we could all do together, as brothers.” His foil connected with his opponent’s chest once more.

“He does have a point,” Smirke said. Breathing very heavily now, Jonah found himself smiling widely, and Smirke spoke again. “King’s bishop to bishop’s fourth square.” 

Jonah’s bright smile faltered somewhat as he considered the implications of Smirke’s plan for an exchange while a sword was hurtling towards his face.

Jonah parried—  _ septime _ — and tried for his own attack. But Fanshawe denied him his riposte, and beared down on Jonah again with all his might.

“King’s knight to bishop three!” he said, knocking Fanshawe’s blade aside. His sudden exclamation and the resounding tap of his foot against the piste must have dislodged something in his friend’s iron focus. Jonah saw his opening, and he took it. Fanshawe was knocked to the ground by the force of the blow.

“Touché,” admitted Fanshawe, and Jonah offered him his hand to help him up.

The two men shook hands warmly, and as they disengaged Jonah reached to free himself from his mask. The summer’s warmth and the intensity of their exertion made him sweat, and he shook out his fashionable curls as he looked around at his two friends.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “May I buy you a drink?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re reading this and someone scored a point when they didn’t have right of way, feel free to come to my house and kill me! Just end my fucking life.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, folks. I've been putting this off for almost a year. I'll be taking a different approach to this one, so don't worry about my usual tomfoolery. Nevertheless, keep an eye on the tags, as more characters and relationships will be added.


End file.
